The Wedding Quilt. Lenora Worth
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smile, then turned away, clearly flustered in a most becoming way, to put them in water.
“Hi, I’m Nancy Brinson, Rosemary’s sister-in-law,” Nancy said, taking matters into her own hands. “And this is my husband, Rosemary’s brother, Danny. Sorry we missed you at the celebration last night.” She patted little Emily on the head. “This one was teething and wasn’t up to socializing, so we stayed home to take turns walking the floor with her.”
Rosemary regained her composure enough to take one of Emily’s fat hands into her own so she could kiss it and squeeze it softly. “This is our Emily, ten months old and full of energy.”
Kirk nodded to Nancy, then shook Danny’s hand while the other man sized him up. “Nice to meet all of you.” He grinned and cooed at Emily.
Spellbound, the baby batted her long lashes and let out a squeal of delight.
“She never meets a stranger,” Danny said proudly. “Hey, want a glass of tea?”
“Sure,” Kirk said. “I’m learning to like it with ice. You know, my mother taught me to drink it hot.”
“Not me,” Danny said, grimacing. “I know it’s a tradition over where you come from, and up North. But, man, once I was on a business trip in Detroit and ordered tea, and they brought it to me hot and in a cup—”
Nancy interrupted, a teasing smile on her face, “And he was so embarrassed, instead of ordering iced tea, he sat right there and sipped it hot, as if he were at a tea party or something.”
Kirk laughed. “I bet you looked extremely dainty.”
“I tried,” Danny said, guiding Kirk into the dining room. “Have a seat.”
Nancy put the baby down in her nearby crib and helped Rosemary carry in the food and drink. Clayton sat stone-silent at the head of the table.
Kirk looked around the long room. It was a lovely setting for a meal, complete with lacy white curtains at the tall windows and a matching lace tablecloth on the spacious mahogany table. Everything gleamed in the rays of the overhanging light fixture, while the scent of something fresh-baked set out on a matching buffet lifted out on the gentle breeze teasing through the open windows.
Noticing the formal settings at the table, he said, “I hope you didn’t go to any extra trouble for me.”
Before Rosemary could answer, Danny said, “Oh, no. It’s a tradition in our house—having all the family together for a meal at least once a week. We usually do it on Sunday nights, but this week Emily was sick, so we put it off a couple of days.”
“And used to, your mother would be here,” Clayton said in a quiet voice, his stern look intact.
For just a minute, Kirk saw the raw pain and grief in the older man’s eyes, and regretted his bad feelings regarding Rosemary’s father. He didn’t really have any right to judge the man. He’d known grief when he’d lost his beloved grandfather. Still, losing a wife had to be different. And maybe he would never know that kind of loss.
Because you never stay in one spot long enough to get that close to someone.
He glanced up at Rosemary, who stood just inside the wide archway, her gaze searching her father’s face, her stance hesitant and unsure. The same pain he’d seen in Clayton’s eyes was now reflected in her own.
Danny looked over at his father, then back to Kirk, his expression going soft with memories. “Yeah, Mom went to a lot of trouble. Cooked all afternoon. We’d come back around for leftovers during the week…” His voice trailed off, then he shrugged.
Kirk watched Clayton for signs of eruption, and seeing none, said, “I’m sure you all miss her.”
“We do,” Rosemary said, sitting down across from Kirk, her gaze still on her father. Clayton stared firmly at his plate.
Kirk watched as she reached for both her father’s hand on one side and Danny’s on the other. “Let’s say grace.”
Danny automatically took his sister’s hand, then reached for his wife’s. Nancy in turn held out a hand to Kirk so they would form a circle. Not knowing what else to do, Kirk followed suit and held out a hand to Clayton. On her side of the table, Rosemary waited for her father to grasp both her hand and Kirk’s.
When Clayton refused to take either of their hands, Rosemary didn’t bat an eye. She closed her eyes, holding tight to Danny’s hand, and said a quick blessing, then let go of her brother’s hand to start passing food.
But Kirk didn’t miss the hurt, confused look haunting her eyes. She was trying very hard to stay steadfast in the storm of her father’s rejection. How could a man do that to his daughter? How could he treat her that way and not know he was being cruel?
Maybe Clayton did know exactly what he was doing, Kirk decided. Maybe he was being deliberate. But why?
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he began carefully, “how did your mother die?”
Rosemary looked over at her father, then to Danny, panic in her eyes.
Wishing he could take the question back, Kirk added, “If you’d rather not talk about it—”
“She died in a car accident,” Danny said quietly. “And, actually, we’d rather not talk about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kirk replied, very aware of the undercurrent circling the table with the same fierce intensity with which Rosemary had just graced the meal.
“How’d work go today?” Rosemary said, her smile tight, her eyes shining.
Relieved that she’d given him an opportunity to take his foot out of his mouth, Kirk nodded. “Great. I talked to Reverend Clancy about hiring some of the locals to help with the sanctuary and the outside walls of the church. I’ll need an assistant to help hoist me up and to help me from time to time up on the steeple. But for the most part I do all the steeple work myself.”
“How did you ever become a steeplejack?” Danny asked between bites of biscuit with rice and gravy.
Kirk grinned. “I get that question a lot. Most people think I’m crazy, but actually, I’m a fourth-generation steeplejack. My mother’s grandfather back in Ireland was a steeplejack and he taught my grandfather and my uncle. When I came along, I tagged around behind my grandfather so much, he had no choice but to put me to work, much to my mother’s dismay. We traveled all over Ireland and England, repairing and renovating steeples and cathedrals, some of them stretching up a hundred and twenty-five feet.”
Rosemary went pale. “I can’t imagine being that high up. I can barely make it up Alba Mountain without getting dizzy.”
Kirk gave her a warm look. “Afraid of heights, huh?”
“She sure is,” Danny said. “I used to climb up to the belfry at the church all the time when we were little. But she’d get halfway up those old stone steps and turn around and crawl back down.”
“I never made it to the top,” Rosemary said, “and I don’t care who called me chicken.” She glared at her brother. “The view from the mountain’s good enough for me. I don’t need to be on top of that narrow tower to see what I need to see.”
Kirk laughed at her stubborn tone, then gave her a hopeful, challenging look. “We might have to change all of that. The view from up there is something else. It’s a shame you’ve never seen it.”
Danny patted his sister on the shoulder. “Hey, man, if you can get her up there, you really will be the miracle worker Reverend Clancy says you are.”
Everyone laughed at that remark. Everyone except Clayton. He ate his food in silence, motioning to Rosemary when he wanted refills or seconds.
Kirk, determined to win the man over in some form, turned to him at last. “Mr. Brinson, since you’ve been a member of the church most of your life, I could use